Tits. That’s how this whole journey really started. One could look at the catalyst from any perspective for how our little poopsploding darling came to be, and they would all probably be correct. But that was the first word that popped into my head when I started impulse typing, and so I’ll let the chips (or tits), lie where they fell. The journey of our darling daughter began with boobs. Erica’s splendid boobs specifically. Boobs that jiggled and jangled on my mobile phone screen while I fisted my manhood in purpose and desperation, and in the stanky confines of the mens toilets in the Raffles Men’s health clinic, just so I could fill that damn specimen cup. And that my dear Karissa… is a big part of the story of how you were born. But you can read more about the said fisting episode in my 2010 (gosh was it really that long ago??) post on it. It’s the stuff of romance novels it is.
I can’t believe it was 2010 when this whole journey began. I remember wanting to document it at the time, and in retrospect, I probably should have while the memory was still fresh. I still remember spending the night in contorted agony in a Raffles Hospital day bed when I accompanied Erica for her laparoscopy. I can’t remember what that actually is now, except that the first thing that comes to mind is a surgical procedure that involves shoving a camera up a werewolf’s ass. I remember sitting there in the room and about to bang out a post… but didn’t. Oh well, story of my blogging life. But Erica ended up documenting some of it so yay.
From there, it was the decision of how we best wanted to approach assisted conception. The first was IUI which involves, as per my layman understanding, machine gunning her eggs with my sperm like Arnie storming the mansion in the climax of Commando. The problem with this is the high chance of multiple pregnancies. Twins, triplets, octoplets… you name it. It could be like a fucking salmon hatchery. Now that’s a scary thought. The other option, IVF. A more controlled and precise method of externally fertilizing the eggs in a petrie dish (as my imagination tells me), and transferring the subsequent developed embryo back into the Erica’s oven/uterus. We opted for the latter. We transferred 2 embryos across and were truly blessed with first time success.
And really… that was the end of my input into the whole process. Busting a nut into a cup. For Erica, it had just begun. Non-stop hormone injections, innumerable pills that she had to take, minor surgery, and various medical instruments being shoved up her cooter to get Karissa in there. It’s all very medical so I best not try my hand at interpreting it. She starting writing her experiences here, but I’m not exactly sure how far she got.
I remember when we first got news that she was pregnant, it took all everything I had not to go shouting it to the world. I didn’t want to count my chickens before they were hatched because the chances of a miscarriage is always relatively high. We counted by each passing week with breathless anticipation as each passing moment meant that her chances at successful development were increasing. The first milestone was at 12 weeks where we could finally announce with relative security that we were pregnant. It was a great feeling.
The next came at 20 weeks where we discovered that we were having a baby girl. We were absolutely ecstatic. Erica really wanted a girl more than anything else. Me, although I would prefer a boy, just wanted Erica to be happy. So when the sonographer confirmed that it was a girl, and I saw Erica tearing at the news, well… best news ever. We were both absolutely over the moon. We only want 2 kids, and beyond that, the only combination I did not want was 2 boys. Being 1 of 2 sons, I know what a pain in the ass it was for my mum. So now that the first one is a girl, the pressure was off. It doesn’t matter what the next is, we would both be completely happy. But, I know that Erica would not have been as emotionally overcome if it was a boy, so I’m very thankful that the first was what it was.
And the next 19 weeks after that just seemed to fly by. Apart from the hormone treatments and stuff, Erica’s pregnancy has been extremely easy thank god. No cravings, minimal weight gain, and no nausea. During the course of her pregnancy she only gained about 9kg. Me, I don’t know how the hell but I gained 5 kg during her pregnancy as well. Fuck sympathetic weight gain. I think I was more depressed than she was as I couldn’t fit into my pants any longer and had no good reason for it.
I remember during her close friend Brenda’s wedding, I couldn’t fit into any of my suits, and as such had to wear black jeans. Argh…. Mez you fat bastard. But every cloud has a silver lining. Because of this grotesque period of waist expansion, I came to discover an incredible secret, a veritable modern miracle in essence, that infernal womenfolk have been hiding from us men for the longest time now. SECRET SPANDEX!!! They actually have denim jeans with a spandex percentage!! WTF RIGHT?? OMG!!! I tried on a pair of 7 For All Mankind spandex jeans and OMFGGGGGGG!!!! It was like I had died and gone to comfy heaven! The 2+% spandex felt sooo amazing. I could even do a full roundhouse kick without feeling like my pants were gonna split or my genitalia launching through the crotch like an cruise missile! Women! What else are you hiding!
Good news however, I’ve lost 4kg over the last 3 weeks since Karissa was born and can now once again fit into most of my old pants. Whew… balance has almost been restored.
Anyway I started typing this post in the afternoon, and baby K decided that she wanted to be fussy for the rest of the day. So I can’t remember what the hell else I was going to add. Oh well, I’m sure I’ll get round to it piecemeal eventually. Don’t know if it’s a 3 week growth spurt or the attempted transition to wean her off bottle feeding, but she’s been extremely fussy yesterday and today. Stark contrast to the Angel she’s been since day 1. Oh well, so it begins. I need sleep… She hasn’t pooped all day and it’s now 11pm. I sense a titanic 3am poop nuke en route Sigh…
But then, how could I possibly get annoyed at this?